


The Telling of the Bees

by cthonia



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: I really want to just write domestic aus where they live in that cottage and garden together, M/M, Multi, This is about Holmes' wake, except for this tiny sad little boi, in a universe where holmes and watson settled down in the country and raised bees together, tragically motivation has been low
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthonia/pseuds/cthonia
Summary: The telling of the bees is a tradition in Europe, mostly England I think, where the bees would be informed of important events in their keeper's life like births and deaths.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 16





	The Telling of the Bees

The wake is held in a small cottage, nestled high on the heath, surrounded by heather and the hum of bees. More people than the ground has seen in a long time are gathered there, talking in hushed and solemn voices. If you sat and watched, a slow revolve revealed itself. A circular procession leading people from the door through to what had once been a cozy sitting room to the seat of a graying old man with a bushy mustache. Hands like knotted wood are busy scrawling names into an overflowing note book. Some of the people these names belong to are almost as old and worn as the man himself. Other’s are younger. 

Not a one of them seems untouched by the somber mood, not even the youngest child there. They shift from foot to foot and listen to adults give their condolences over and over. He was a great man. He will be sorely missed. They glance from the gray man in his chair to a picture hung above the mantle. A water color painted by a grateful young woman from the village at the foot of the hill. Amongst waving heather stand two men, one a little taller than the other. The old man sat in his chair looks a little younger in the painting, happier too. The taller man has sharper features, a keen and raw intelligence shining from his watercolor eyes. His expression is one of immeasurable fondness, face turned to regard the man at his side.

There is history in that painting, captured by the brush and set to paper. Captured in the memories of all in attendance here at what feels like the end of an era. Memory is all that’s left to them now. 

In the far corners of the house, outside of the sitting room there is a quite but intense distribution of duties by the women in attendance. They hadn’t a housekeeper, and now the poor man was to live alone. It wouldn’t do, they said among themselves. Someone was going to make sure he was fed. That the house was clean. That the garden was tended. Schedules and plans were drawn with all the weight and import of generals deciding how to defend their country.

Slowly the trickle of people stops. They are all, in their own ways, trying to look after the man in the sitting room, some more covertly than others. But when the man stands up, hands gripping a curved wooden cane, they part around him, each watching go and wondering if he wants company. He makes his way out the back door, stooping to tug on boots suitable for the heath. As he walks out across the grounds towards the hives lined up along the property’s edge, the older locals sigh. They know. 

His progress is slow, the years have been only so kind to John Watson. He aches, rain or shine, but he can still move under his own power. There are always blessings to be counted, even now. Watson stops before the hives, listening to their gentle music. He smiles softly, the ache of loneliness even worse out here in the wind, then he leans close to the hives and tells them.

“Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

The bees hum, and Watson straightens up, looking out over the heath, down the sloping hills to the little village and the church yard. If he’d been able to travel, that is where he would be right now, seated next to Holmes’ last resting place. As it stood, Watson was sure he’d make the trip down the hill soon enough. Yes, he would be following after Sherlock soon. For now though he stands in the wind under the gray sky and tells the bees.

**Author's Note:**

> The telling of the bees is a tradition in Europe, mostly England I think, where the bees would be informed of important events in their keeper's life like births and deaths.


End file.
